


Hearts are Gold; Hands are Cold

by OverMyFreckledBody



Series: Count Your Fingers, Count Your Thumbs [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (im kinda sorry), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teen Wolf (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Not really a Stand alone, Pre-Slash, Werewolf Hunk, Werewolf Shiro, almost getting togther, longer than it was supposed to be, minor (not quite) panic attack, minor hunk & lance broship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 15:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: Waking up and not knowing if it was a nightmare or a memory is bad enough, even without his heart attempting to send the rest of him into a full-blown panic attack. Lance just knows, though, that this has something to the supernatural world he's recently stepped into. He has more than enough reasons to call his best friend, for help, for comfort - but.But he doesn't call Hunk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> sooo let me first say, this is kinda of not it's own thing? it's _kinda_ part of a series? but at the same time it could be read on its own fine enough, i suppose.  
>  i guess i'm saying that there's more coming along with it. at... some point.
> 
> so, that means yes, this is technically a teen wolf fusion/au. ~~and I stereked it~~ wherein Lance (Stiles) is human and still working through whats gonna change after his best friend, Hunk (Scott), is bitten by a rampaging, alpha werewolf, with the help of the older ~~hot, angsty~~ born werewolf, Shiro (Derek), who's come back to town to uncover the strange mystery of the body in the woods
> 
> you literally don't have to have any teen wolf knowledge to read this or the fic this is coming from. it reads as its own story, but just has references and hints of things that if you did know teen wolf, you'd recognize. that said, while this (again) is its own thing, it was gonna be one scene from the fic, but i decided it wouldnt really have a place, and so it gets its own thing. it was supposed to be under 1k but its somehow 3, and no. bad. a fanfic of my own fanfic and it ran from me. 
> 
> TEEN WOLF ASIDE - [here's the music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE) the title came from, that inspired this, and that I listened to as I wrote. have fun and enjoy

                Lance isn’t sure how it happens, but all of a sudden, like something clicking into place, reality shifts. It’s less of the colors of the world around him swirling together and he’s somewhere else and more along the lines of it all bends together, folds over itself, and now there are dead trees, tall and leafless, where they shouldn’t be – where _he_ shouldn’t be, though now he doesn’t remember where he even _should_ be.

 

                The idea that he was somewhere else just seconds ago falls out of his head to be replaced with his next thought, but the feeling that something is off, stays.

 

                Glancing around, he wonders if it’s the scenery. It looks normal, a tad familiar, but there’s an air to it like something here is really, _really_ wrong, but he can’t find what it is to put his finger on it. He’s walking down the sidewalk of a neighborhood, footsteps steady and surprisingly fine even though it’s obvious that it was just raining, if the gray, puffy clouds above him, and the thin puddles that coat the sidewalk and rinse down the road are anything to go by.

 

                He slips just as he realizes that it’s _weird_ that his footing is better than it should be. Once he steadies himself again, he tries to focus on the details that just _are_ rather than _how_ they’re different than what they “should” be.

 

                It must be early in the morning, because the blue that pokes out from the clouds is softer, not vibrant, and the sun seems to be coming from one distinct corner of his view. The streetlamps are all on, too, as are each and every single porch light. They don’t do much to give light to the world, seeing as how it might be early, but it’s not dark, but none of them have been turned off. Some of the houses don’t even have cars in front of them (though many of the homes – most of them – do), or even an outdoor trash can pulled out to the curb and ready to be picked up by the garbage collectors.

 

                He pauses, wondering why this would even be significant, but pushes that thought aside when he then notices one more detail.

 

                They all look exactly the same. Not the cars, not the yards, or the dead trees, not even the houses. The _trash cans_ look exactly alike. They’re all the same brand, and are all so stuffed full that the lid doesn’t close all the way like it should. Just barely, with every single can, he can see different pieces of things, only green, red, and white, poking through the crack between the lip and the lid – all in the same places of each can.

 

                Why is… What are the chances of that?

 

                As he’s looking over each trash can, absorbing the details that are all the same, he notices one that isn’t. Some houses ahead of him he can see one of the trash cans, same brand, likely still filled of just barely too much garbage, is knocked over. Out of it flows spilled trash, such things like boxes and food, even toilet paper that sticks, dissolving into the wet concrete. This trash can is the only one that’s different.

 

                Glancing at the house in front of it, Lance sees two cars, taking up the space of the driveway – meaning that it wasn’t knocked over as someone pulled out into the street (though… there isn’t any real signs of life, it’s early morning and no one is leaving their homes for work). The house has its lights on like all the others, and the tree in its yard has icicles to replaces the leaves. It doesn’t look any different from the rest, but it feels… It _feels_ different.

 

                He takes a step forward, moving towards the house, feet working for him without real effort or command as his mind tries to work over any other differences, to get a feel for if this is something he needs to check out, or if it’s something the needs to get away from. His gut isn’t twisting, his steps aren’t faltering, something just beneath his stomach _tugs_ , like he’s being _drawn_ in the house’s direction.

 

                He takes another step.

 

                The trees around him wave, icicles shifting in the movements of the wind that he can’t feel –

 

                He shivers and all of a sudden, the chill registers and he pulls his jacket tighter around him.

 

                He takes another step.

 

                Once in front of the door, he lifts a fist to knock and pauses, nerves kicking in. He doesn’t know what he’s even doing – what’s he supposed to say? “ _Hello, I just wanted to check that there really are people living in this neighborhood, thanks for allowing me to check to get rid of my paranoia_.”? He doesn’t even know _where_ he is, either, but he still needs to know. He needs to know why this house’s trash can was different, why it drew him in. The tugging in his gut grows stronger the longer he waits, uncomfortable, but neither painful nor too much to bear.

 

                In an attempt to steady himself, he takes in a deep breath and remembers that trick about calming down. Counting to ten while breathing in through the nose, holding it, and breathing out through mouth. _Deep breath in…_

_One, two, three, six_ –

 

                _Deep breath out. Deep breath in._

_Seven, eight, four, five –_

The numbers – he blinks. And blinks again, starting over. His brain was probably just fuzzing out for a second.

 

                _One, two, nine, five, three –_

What was that trick about testing for reality again? Something about counting fingers, making sure they’re normal, that he has all ten of them. He looks down.

 

                At least they’re his hands. He flexes his fingers, their long lengths familiar, smooth movements not unusual in the least, smooth, brown skin just as it should be. He starts on his left.

 

                _One, two, ten –_

                Fuck.

 

* * *

 

 

                He shoots up in bed, hands fisting in the sheets on either side of him, pants coming out uneven as his chest heaves for breath. His heart is spluttering between his ribs and his eyes are wide, but he isn’t sure if this is because of the abruptness of his wake, or the contents of his dream. All Lance can really process is that his throat is tight and it feels as if someone is squeezing his lungs each time he tries to breathe in.

 

                He scrambles for his phone where it should be sitting on the dresser next to his bed, but in his rush his hand smacks it off and onto the floor between the wall and his bed. He draws in a sharp breath in surprise and now the metaphorical fingers around his lungs are digging in their nails, but he ignores it in effort to grab his phone because _he has to know_. He has to _check_.

 

                From knocking it into the carpet and being yanked off its charger, it’s lit up. It’s easier to see where it is instead of having to fumble and feel for it, so he easily grabs it, unlocks it with shaky fingers, and turns on the flashlight, all the while ignoring how the dimmest light setting still burns his eyes. He has to _see_ it.

 

                He runs the light over his fingers and counts before switching to the other hand.

 

                _One, two, three, four, five_.

 

                _Six, seven, eight, nine, ten_.

 

                He double checks.

 

                _One, two, three, four, five – six, seven, eight, nine, ten_.

 

                He’s fine. This is real. This is real life. He’s _awake_.

 

                Upon this realization, exhaustion hits hard and he falls back, hands going slack, head thumping against the pillow. His breath now comes out in long, shuddering sighs, but it’s a lot more even, he doesn’t feel as if he’s being squeezed. Slowly, over the course of a few minutes, his heartrate begins to pace itself again, his body returning to normal from its shock. His phone locks out on its own, but the flashlight continues to shine against the blanket it fell against when he dropped his phone as he fell back.

 

                What the hell _was_ that?

 

                Normally, he would pass it off as some kind of dream – some kind of _nightmare_ , because maybe he wasn’t chased or threatened, but he woke up feeling like he was _dying_ and something about that doesn’t just settle right as being called simply a _dream_ – but it was more than that. During any of the rest of his dreams, thinking on them even right after they’ve happened, they’re fuzzy. The edges around his sight are blurred, the colors are muted, they just don’t have that sharp tint that real life does.

 

                But this one did. He could feel the wind ghosting over his skin and his joints bending the way he wanted them to when he flexed his fingers. In his mind’s eye, he can see the filter overlaying everything he’s thinking over, the one that separates what he’s thinking from reality, but it’s closer to a memory than a dream.

 

                It feels _just_ like a memory.

 

                Could it be that… that he was subconsciously dreaming of the future? That he was dreaming of _someone else’s_ memories?

 

                But no… those were _his_ hands. He _knows_ those fingers and looking down, he can make out the outlines of them through the dark, wiggling against the blanket. If that was any kind of memory, it had to be one of his own.

 

                Then that begs the next question: did he just dream up some kind of prophecy? Something yet to come? An outcome of the pack’s choices – _his_ choices? Whatever it was, it didn’t feel good and while he can’t really put his finger on it, it doesn’t feel like anything he’s looking forward to.

 

                He debates on calling Hunk. While he knows Hunk likely won’t know anything on the situation (his bank of facts and information tends to lean towards machinery and food, but not the supernatural – aside from well, himself), Lance knows that even just hearing his best friend’s voice will help calm him down and that he might even have some wise words to say about the situation. He knows that even though the numbers on his phone had read something like three in the morning when he turned on his flashlight, Hunk won’t be bothered if he calls.

 

                It’s something they do a lot. Or really, it’s something that Lance does a lot, but Hunk doesn’t mind. Though he doesn’t typically have a lot of nightmares (that’s more of a recent thing, but Lance isn’t going to think about that right now), if he needs to sleep and can’t, or just needs to be talked into napping those two hours before his alarm goes off instead of staying up, Hunk is his go to call. Hunk’s pretty much always asleep when he calls, Lance knows, but he never mentions it, and even sounds glad to help.

 

                Besides. Lance has slept over with the guy – he knows how Hunk can practically pass out on command. It really isn’t even an issue.

 

                His fingers drag along the edges of his phone, still thinking it over, and he can just imagine the conversation.

 

                _Have you been to bed yet, Lance? What are you doing tonight – I thought there wasn’t anything –_

 

                _There wasn’t. And I have, but… I woke up. I had this weird dream about trash cans –_

_I had a dream like that once. I watched a raccoon pull a burrito out of a dumpster and give it to me, but then the dumpster came live and chased after me, calling me a thief –_

 

                (This is a real dream Hunk has had. Lance remembers hearing about it. So vividly, in fact, that he’s pretty sure on some nights he even dreams it himself. It’s a shuddering thought.)

 

                _Not like that; that would be weird. No, I think it was a fortune-telling one? It felt like a memory. Like, really realistic. Do you think I could be some kind of supernatural creature now, too?_

_I don’t know, man. Nothing’s really happened as of late and… maybe you’ve always been supernatural, but you’re just now coming into your powers?_

_This isn’t Teen Witch, Hunk. If anything, it’s Teen Wolf, because there are so many goddamn werewolves running around in this town._

While running through one variant of a possible conversation does some help to getting rid of restless agitation that fills him, it’s not enough to get him to actually sleep. If he doesn’t want to pass out in the middle of one of his classes tomorrow (in a few hours), he’s going to need to find a way to force the exhaustion that grips deep into his bones to spread to his brain, which is still working through figuring out just what that dream (nightmare) could mean. The answer is probably listening to a real voice and actual human (werewolf-inclusive) interaction.

 

                His fingers wrap tighter around his phone.

 

                Once he’s got the flashlight off – because the way the light distorts the edges of the room is not something he prefers over total darkness – he sits up and back against his headboard as he waits for his cell to dial out. It only rings twice before it’s answered, but he’s the one to speak first, “What do you know about supernatural creatures that have some kind of tie to dreams or the future?”

 

                He only feels mildly guilty about his phone greeting, seeing as how it’s a question that if really important, he’d probably just look up himself, but his remaining nerves are making him jittery and it’s the first thing out of his mouth. He needs this – he needs to hear it, no matter what the reply may be.

 

                There’s only breathing for a few seconds before – “ _Lance?_ ”

 

                It’s comforting, soothing, enough so that it shuts down his babbling. “Yes.”

 

                “ _It’s three in the morning._ ” There’s a slight hesitance in the way that sentence ends, like he’s about to go on, but Lance rushes to respond, hopefully answering the unasked question.

 

                _What are you doing awake?_

 

                “And I just had this dream about the future.”

 

                Another pause. Lance can’t really blame him, if someone called him up in the middle of the night spewing things about the supernatural and future-y dreams, he’d – aside from mourn his sleep because he won’t be getting that back after the call ends – be confused as well. “ _Lance, are you-_ ”

 

                He doesn’t let that finish either. “Yes.” _Okay? Alright? Freaking out?_ It’s a little redundant, but the answer to each of those is _yes_ in their own way. If he could, he’d check the little _all of the above_ box.

 

                “ _Who else is awake?_ ”

 

                “Uh,” the question fazes him a little, and in his lull, he might not have heighted senses, but he can hear something that sounds like clothing shuffling around on the other end of the line. “Just me, I think. You mean in the house, right?”

 

                The shuffling stops, a laugh covering it instead, soft and under his breath, before it continues along with the return of, “ _Yes. I can be there in ten, if I run and you can-_ ”

 

                Wait. No. That’s not why Lance called at all. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says aloud instead. Turning his flashlight back on again, he stumbles as quietly as he can towards his door to hit the light switch so he can get dressed too. “I’m on the second floor and you’re gonna what – scale it in the dead of night and hope my _cop uncle_ doesn’t notice? He’s trained to wake up if like, hale hits the roof too hard.”

 

                Sound from the other end ceases again, the time between responses longer than either before. Not even a hint of shuffling, either. Just… silence.

 

                And then, tone lower, much, much more serious, “ _Can you get out of the house?_ ”

 

                He must have been thinking.

 

                If Lance didn’t know any better, he would have thought the question was asking if he was trapped, like he didn’t actively live and sleep here. But he does, so he only answers back, “Yes.”

 

                “ _Good_ ,” comes back immediately, and Lance snorts at it’s sudden delivery. “ _Then we can go to that all-day diner you’ve been wanting to hit. I can pick you up a block from your house-_ ”

 

                “Two,” Lance cuts in, because it’s better to be safe.

 

                “ _Two blocks from your house_ ,” he agrees, voice a touch soft, fond. Lance shifts at the sound of it, ignoring the wiggly feeling it creates in his gut.

 

                Silence falls over the line again, but this time it’s without the tension of before. There’s no waiting for either of them to say something, neither of them _need_ to say anything. It still is… unusual, however. Neither of them are saying anything, but neither of them are ending the call either. They’re just stuck in this sort of limbo, listening to each other breathe, listening to each other dress and get ready.

 

                Not shocking, that’s the thought that urges Lance to kill it with another question. “Why are we – why are we meeting there? I could just tell you about it over the phone.” Not that he doesn’t want to. Getting something to eat sounds nice, especially with company (certain _werewolf_ company), and he still doesn’t feel like he can sleep, so getting out is his best bet.

 

                He just wants to know _why_. _Why_ this is on the table.

 

                A noise comes out, something Lance can’t tell if it’s supposed to be thoughtful or surprised, though he knows it sounds like it came out with permission. “ _I wanted to – I thought it would be best… to talk it face to face. Easier. For you._ ” And yes, that’s true. It sounds like it will and Lance really isn’t against this, but…

 

                That wasn’t the real reason. Well, it might be real, but it wasn’t the first, original reason – yet, he knows better than to push. The call is kind of wrapping itself up, even if their conversation really… isn’t.

 

                He lets it drop. “Alright.”

 

                And again comes another small batch of hesitance, but it gets interrupted just as Lance is reaching for his wallet, “ _And Lance?_ ”

 

                “Mm?” He hums, offering his ear to the question as he attempts to shove the leather square into his pocket with his left hand.

 

                “ _My treat._ ”

 

                He pauses, fingers still curled around the wallet. _He’s paying, too?_ It almost feels…

 

                Like a date.

 

                But. No. It’s not a date. They’re going to a diner to talk about his weird dream, at _three in the morning_. That’s not what normal people do on dates. That’s not even what normal people do – period.

 

                Still, they’re not really _normal_ , honestly. Either of them. _Any_ of them.

 

                He pushes that thought away, drops his wallet back onto his dresser. He smiles, despite it all. Hey, at least he doesn’t have to pay now, apparently. “Sweet.”

 

                “ _Alright. I’ll see you soon, okay, Lance?_ ”

 

                “Yeah.” He leans against the door on his shoulder, knowing he’s going to need to end the call before he steps out into that hallway, but he still wants to hang onto it, even just for these last bits. “See you when you get here, Shiro.”

 

                There’s that silence again, without the tension, just their puffs of air against the receiver, but no more shuffling of clothes, or anything from what Lance can hear. As far as he knows, Shiro is mirroring him, just leaning against the wall, or standing completely still, waiting for one of them to hang up.

 

                Anticipating their meeting, but not wanting to stop calling to get there.

 

                He’s the one to break it this time as well, “Drive safe.”

 

                There’s a few seconds before a _definite_ touch of fondness over the words, “Will do, Lance.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! if you liked it, be sure to give it a kudos and if youre feeling really generous, a comment would be fantastic too!!
> 
> if you wanna see more of this au, you can do any of the following: a, follow [my shance/vld blog](http://cryingovershance.tumblr.com/), where I will post any shance i write (bonus if you turn on notifs), b, message me on tumblr and i can hook you up with a link when its finished and/or tag you, c, comment below and tell me your tumblr and I can do the same, or d, subscribe to my ao3 for the email when it gets posted (you can totally unsub later of you want to, thats your decision). 
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the post that links to this if you want to rebblog/like it on tumblr!!](http://cryingovershance.tumblr.com/post/156303300834/i-was-kinda-see-sawing-on-whether-or-not-to-post)


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